The Sweet Kiss of Charity
by Ithilwen K-Bane
Summary: Edward signs up to work at a charity event ...that turns out to involve a kissing booth. Prissy aneurysms ensue. Support Stacie challenge response. Comes in two delicious flavors. Crossover with Jane Austen and Ian Fleming. Rated for language only
1. Final Copy Cookies 'n' Cream

Support Stacie went really well. Altogether, the participating authors raised over $16,000 for Ms. Holeman's treatment. ...of that, a small sum was donated by own kinolaughs for me to write the following piece. Kindly do honor to her charitable nature by heading off to read her 'fics. In _Bye Bye Internal Censor_, she actually gives a plausible reason why Edward might strip to music. BRILLIANT!

Further disclaimers follow. This takes place during _Eclipse_.

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At first, there was nothing but a dark, buzzing haze. Then there were voices.

"I think he's coming to."

"I say there, are you all right?"

"Best to give him a moment, I think."

I blinked without knowing that I was blinking. I was somewhere light, and it was morning. I could smell cut grass, cotton candy and motor oil. Things were ...blurry. The last thing I remembered was—

I sat straight up, launching myself halfway across the—

What in blazes _was_ this place?

I blinked again and the venom in my eyes evened out. Grass. Cheap food. The smells of a fairground but not the sounds. Two other men nearby, two hearts beating without alarm. It all came back.

Twenty-four hours earlier, some non-profit representatives had shown up at our house, politely informed us that our entire universe was fictional, that I personally had thousands of adoring fans and would-Mr.-Edward-like-to-help-raise-money-for-cancer-research at some kind of inter-dimensional fundraiser.

Once I'd satisfied myself that they were neither lying nor insane—and once Alice had seen a clear picture of my safe return—I'd agreed. Naturally, the thought of saving lives instead of ruining and ending them appealed to me, but there was also the very real possibility of these people outing vampires to the public if we displeased them. The idea was present in the representatives' minds, even though they looked far happier to appeal to my better nature. In addition, they didn't seem to have any specific rules against interfering in other universes. As Emmett had put it during the family meeting, we were outside of _Star Trek_'s prime directive territory and skirting the edges _Farscape_'s "is it a 'we eat it' alien or the 'it eats us' kind?"

In any case, here I was ...or, more accurately, here _we_ were. I was not, as I had expected to be, alone. Perhaps I was not the only one with a guilty conscience to assuage.

As I sat up, careful to mime the confusion and soreness that I'd expect a human to feel after a ride like that, I took stock of my surroundings. I was inside a wooden fairground booth that looked just a little too traditional to be anything but deliberate. The two men with me did not look like personnel in either their manner or their dress. I'd been told to wear my everyday clothes, but one of them was in a slick black tuxedo and the other was wearing a gentleman's morning coat ...and what Emmett would have called a "mega-constipated" expression.

"An impressively quick recovery," said Tuxedo, quirking an eyebrow. "I've found the ability to spring up at any moment to be quite useful myself."

"How do you do?" said Morning Coat in a stiff but otherwise polite voice. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy."

For a split second, I thought that he simply shared a name with Jane Austen's hero, but the thoughts in his mind hovered around a letter of business that he meant to write when he returned to London—something about assigning a living to a family friend—and on a pair of fine dark eyes as they lent light to an otherwise ordinary face. If this wasn't actually Mr. Darcy from Jane Austen's novel, then it was at least a man who'd led a very similar life.

"Hello," I said, shaking his hand. Oh but Bella would be thrilled when I told her about this! "Edward Cullen." It seemed I wasn't the only literary figure signed on to help a noble cause this day. But why did he seem so—

_Oh, a Yank..._ Tuxedo interrupted my train of thought as he heard my accent. Beneath the words, there was an undercurrent that I couldn't place, but it was intensely charged and at times violent. I focused, wary of a threat and I saw guns, bombs, explosions and dangerous beasts all interspersed with a wide variety of young women in revealing garments. _I hope he doesn't fall all over me like they usually do. I only just got the drool stains out of my dinner jacket._ He then followed with a smug recollection of a set of saliva stains that had come from a more pleasant source—a cheeky blonde gunslinger from just south of Prague.

Pleasant for him, that was. Frankly, I felt a bit sick to my stomach as I reached out to shake his hand.

"Bond," he introduced himself, "James Bond."

I raised an eyebrow. "Pleased to meet you," I said, intrigued. "My brothers are big fans." It was true. Jasper and especially Emmett had watched every movie twice. I'd joined them, but Rose and I'd always been more interested in the cars than in Ian Fleming's unrealistic super-spy.

"I must say I'm glad they didn't send your brothers, then," uttered Mr. Darcy. "The behavior of Mr. Bond's fans toward him is oftentimes most unseemly."

I held back a laugh, imagining how Emmett would react to meeting 007 in person. "Unseemly" didn't cover it.

"Now, Darcy, don't be rude," said Bond, but his thoughts agreed wholeheartedly. _Honestly, I swear that Neo fellow from a few years back fawned over me like a lovesick flamingo..._

I'd have thought that was an odd turn of phrase, but then Bond actually started visualizing lovesick flamingoes ...and they weren't imaginary memories. The rogue KGB agent had tried to seduce the cellist with an experimental aphrodisiac, but it had fallen into the lagoon where the island girls had been having their annual bikini contest, and— I blinked hard, trying to clear the image from my head and made a mental note to avoid Bond's mind whenever possible.

"We should be getting started soon," said Bond. "They usually open the gates around ten in the morning. Are you ready to hustle it all for a good cause?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Darcy's nose wrinkle up, just barely. He hadn't liked the way Bond had said "hustle" any more than I had. I'd have smiled sympathetically, but I suspected it would only have made him uncomfortable.

Darcy was reserved and Bond was a man of action. The way to deal with either of them was to get straight to business.

And there was still some mystery regarding what today's business would be.

"Does anyone know exactly what we'll be doing?" I asked. "The representative who came to my home didn't know the details of how I'd be expected to help out. He just said something about inspiring a few thousand small donations."

"Really?" Bond stifled a chuckle. Darcy turned green.

One of the things I liked best about being able to hear people's thoughts was that I didn't usually have to wait for someone to decide how to phrase a response. I asked a question, and the other person couldn't help thinking of the answer. No minced words, no half-truths, no spin.

But as the images rose in my companions' minds—tainted with disgust in Darcy's and mild amusement in Bond's—I realized that I could've done with a bit of sugarcoating.

"We're supposed to _what?!_" I demanded, forgetting for a moment that neither of them had said it out loud.

_Wonderful,_ thought Bond,_ another prude. What a bore._ Outwardly, though, he only nodded toward something behind me.

I turned around, and there, tacked facing forward was a clear, wooden sign reading, "YOU MUST BE OVER 18 TO ASK FOR TONGUE."

I blinked to clear the venom in my eyes. The sign repeated its message, no less clearly. Tongue. And an age limit. Unfortunately, the thoughts of my companions kept me free of any hope that we were just working in a very unconventional butcher shop.

"They can't actually mean..." I whispered, shaking my head.

"Hardly decent," Darcy echoed with a stiff sourness. "Mr. Bond informs me that kissing booths became popular at fairs sometime during the twentieth century—"

"We're running a kissing booth?" I demanded, still hoping somewhere that I'd misunderstood the whole thing.

Darcy shuddered. Bond handed me a tube of chapstick.

"No," I said, holding up both hands. "Our agreement was... Just ...no."

"Don't tell it to _me_, young man," answered Bond. "I'm not the one in control here." _Not that that wouldn't be an improvement_, he added mentally. Suddenly I was assaulted by images of busty queue-minders in matching low-cut uniforms and go-go boots. And triplets. There would be more triplets.

I tried to calm myself. I could practically hear what Emmett would have told me: _"Pretty girls, kissing, and there's money involved? What's not to love, bro!"_

What was not to love was first the fact that while I did have excellent control for a vampire, putting my lips and teeth that close to the pulsing arteries of a few hundred healthy young women was probably more than even I could take. Second, I already had a love, a girlfriend, hopefully a fiancée, soon enough a wife and shortly after that a mate in the vampire sense of the expression. I had simply no business kissing anyone else. Third, even before Bella, I'd had no business kissing anyone else. I didn't want them, they only thought they wanted me and the whole matter was just ...eeech!

"Is everything all right here, gentlemen?" someone called. I'd been too caught up in this revelation to notice the person approach. I turned and took in a college-aged young man with a clipboard, a nametag that read "FRANK," and a thick-woven T-shirt bearing the charity's logo.

_Fine, Franklin. We're just watching the new fellow have a nervous breakdown_, thought Bond.

"No," I said carefully, "no I have to say it is not all right." I watched the man's thoughts. He was wearing the uniform of a low-ranking employee or volunteer and his haircut didn't exactly scream upper management, but he'd been sent out here very specifically. He was a handler. He knew what to say, he'd been given the authority to back it up and he'd handled reluctant "participants" before.

I let my eyes shift to Darcy. His first time here, Frank had appealed to his sense of honor, talking him into a repeat commitment before he'd even realized what he'd agreed to. The upright man would never go back on his word, no matter how hastily given. Bond hadn't objected to kissing hundreds of strangers, but it had taken some fast talking to get him to the doctor to have those mouth sores checked out. The gunslinger in Prague, it seemed, had been carrying some double agents of her own.

And he'd studied me. He'd read every scrap of fiction in which I'd appeared, been inside my head nearly as deeply as Aro.

...and he knew I was reading his mind right now.

"Do I have to say it?" he asked me. The rest of his message was not audible to Bond or Darcy. _I'm not going to threaten your family, come on!_ thought Frank._ Sure, it's crossed our minds, but you know very well that people can't always help it. If you're not up to it, then we'll send you home now, but that means a lot of disappointed young ladies and thousands of dollars that don't go to finding a cure for ovarian cancer._

He watched my face. I kept my expression grim, but...

_You are in a unique position, Edward Cullen. You could help save lives just by giving us a few hours of your time. But if it makes you too uncomfortable..._

A flash of green crystal crossed Franklin's thoughts. It seems Bella wasn't the only one with a tendency to compare me to a superhero: Passive-aggressive appeals to guilt, it seems, were my kryptonite.

And did that stuff ever work.

Franklin was manipulating me, but that didn't mean that the things he was saying weren't true.

A few hours... A little discomfort... If I didn't, what kind of person would I be? I already knew, and there was no escaping it, but that was no excuse not to do right when the opportunity arose. I could find some way to explain all this to Bella. Or never tell her in a thousand years. Either of those sounded workable.

"Very well," I said.

Bond was flicking his eyes from Frank to me and back with studied disinterest. He knew he'd missed something and he knew it was important. Darcy had pointedly looked away the whole time, truly attempting to fill his thoughts with his own business. I found I appreciated Darcy's approach much more, but then Bond was a trained spy. Asking him not to snoop would be like telling a champion Doberman to play nice with a crate full of kittens on acid. Emmett had never lived that one down.

"All right!" Frank continued, more chipper this time. "We're opening the gate to the fairground in two minutes. The lines will form over that way. If you hear some loud bangs, it's just the fireworks over by the stage. Don't worry about collecting the money; the ladies buy their tickets at the front gate. Some of them might offer you tips, but I really wouldn't recommend—"

Darcy cleared his throat.

"And security will be on hand," Frank finished.

I blinked. What kind of security did they need for a charity fundraiser kissing booth?

As if he sensed my question, Frank went on, "There have been a few ..._incidents_."

I turned toward Darcy, but he was absorbed in a letter of business that he intended to write upon his return to Devonshire. Bond was enjoying a feisty recollection of three moderately attractive women in a full-on brawl, little curls of dust rising up around them as their shapely bodies twisted and writhed with Darcy in between them, his shirt half-torn as he let out a full-blown panic attack.

Frank disappeared behind the Tilt-a-Whirl and a moment later I heard the cheery sounds of a crowd as it began to filter its way toward us.

I felt sick to my stomach, sure that my marble skin was turning a fine shade of malachite. The thought of... I mean, I didn't even _know_ any of these women. It didn't matter if they were beautiful. Tanya was beautiful and intelligent and interested _and_ not food and I still hadn't felt any need to kiss her.

Darcy didn't look any more enthusiastic than I did, but Bond was reminiscing over an incident in Monte Carlo. One of the women near the front of the line, a leggy blonde of about thirty-five, reminded him of a Russian spy he'd known during the Cold War. I stifled a smirk. I'd been courted by Tanya during the Cold War and I was certain that Mr. Bond's old peccadillo could have nothing on the original succubus of Denali, Alask—

Oh _GOD!_

As Bond thought over the details of his night with his old lady friend and her roommate and a Golden Retriever with some rather unorthodox training, my insides started churning like the time Emmett had dared me to eat four slices of cafeteria pizza. Did anyone actually ..._enjoy_ that sort of thing?! At least with the human food, I could choke it back up again. I wanted that memory _out_ of me.

Maybe it was better, I thought. If I didn't like it, then it couldn't really be cheating, could it? If all I was doing was puckering my lips and pointing them in some woman's direction, why that wasn't really a kiss, couldn't possibly be a betrayal of Bella's trust.

And then first "customers" scampered into place behind the ropes, and I realized something important.

These weren't women. They were girls.

Some were tall and some were short. Some of them were thin as sticks and some gushed over the tops of their low-cut jeans. Some of them wore sober clothes and some wore bright tops and fuzzy cat ears. There were more than a few hoodies emblazoned with the words "TEAM EDWARD" in glittering rhinestones. Some had clear skins and showed off their budding figures and the others were pimply and slouched. But they all shared a gleam in their eye, a glittering, mica-bright point that was more like greed than lust, and more unsettling than a horde of trackers intent on my life.

But their appearance was nothing to mine, gleaming bright in the mirror of their thoughts. I didn't look the way I'd expected.

To teenagers from my own world, even the shallow simpletons who fancied themselves attracted to me, I still retained an undercurrent of menace. But none of these poor creatures had ever seen me close up, ever known the gooseflesh prickling on their skin warning them that they were in the presence of something truly dangerous. Even goddamned Jessica Stanley had figured it out, but these girls filing and shuffling and giggling into place beside the turnstiles saw me as—

A psychology class, long ago at Harvard during the seventies... I was the non-threatening male archetype. Textbook: Dangerous but safe, sexy but sexless. I was a fuzzy tiger cub who never unsheathed its claws. I was so surprised that I leaned forward, straight into the mid-morning sunlight.

...and their faces lit up.

_He's looking at me..._

_  
Oh, he really _does_ sparkle!_

I calmed myself. I had to get through this. Cancer. Curing cancer. Doing good. These were just normal, silly girls, no worse than Angela Weber with her crush on Shia LaBeouf.

_I wonder if I smell like freesia._

_  
I wore my dark blue V-neck sweater today, but is it the same kind Bella wore?_

Okay, weird. It might have made me a fine hypocrite, but I really did _not_ like that these girls all knew my private observations about Bella.

The girls at the front of the line looked at each other and the one in the very front tiptoed nervously toward me. She bit her lip almost the way Bella did when she was nervous. Almost. I tried to focus in on her thoughts specifically. I'd gone through high school too many times not to be apprehensive of what I'd hear.

What I found there left me feeling very surprised. And stupid. And guilty. Maybe this girl was nothing to Bella, but that didn't make her bad. I couldn't quite bring myself to smile encouragingly or wave her over, but I did feel like a bit of a scoundrel for assuming that she'd be a shameless hussy.

For this skittish stranger, kissing me would be like touching a unicorn. She didn't think I'd leave Bella and run off with her instead. She just wanted to feel connected to something magical before she had to go back to being her classmates' chew toy. I saw in her mind that a ticket to this event was no small purchase. She'd had to save every penny from her crummy after-school job and gotten into three fights with her mom, just so she could spend thirty seconds with me. The least I could do was be nice about it, I thought, leaning forward to brush my lips against hers.

It was sweet in a sad sort of way, and then it was over. She smiled. I smiled back politely. She left without complaint, only a little disappointed that it had gone so quickly.

Well that hadn't been as bad as I'd thought, but God had it ever been depressing. Was I going to have to do this all day?

There were already over thirty people in the line behind her, and more were coming each minute. I gripped Bond's tube of chapstick and made eye contact with my next ...whatever she was, a blonde with spiraling curls and a dark blue baby tee. She looked up at the sign and rubbed her lips together, opening her mouth to ask—

"You're only fifteen," I cut her off. "And if Sharie really did say that you could pass for nineteen if you borrowed her push-up bra, then she was lying her size-fours off."

Her eyes went wide. _OMG HE RED MY MIND WTF THAT IZ SO KEWL!!_

Dear God, she thought in slightly outdated chatspeak?! She wrung her hands gleefully and skipped toward me.

"No tongue," I insisted, giving her a chaste, two-second peck. She squeaked in delight and ran off, flipping open her cellphone as she went, thumbs diddling furiously. _I've gotta tell the girls; Candace'll freak when she finds out Sharie's been lying. I've been saying it for weeks: size two my ass!_

My second client, I would learn, would be far more typical of the day than my first.

The third girl had cheeky braids and a gray "Team Edward" hoodie unzipped over a shirt tight enough to show her training bra. Her eyes fell as she saw the sign.

_I have to be eighteen? But whyyyyy??_ she thought in a lurid whine that would've set my ears ringing if she'd given it voice.

_Because I, unlike you, am not earning credits toward my Bachelor's in Trollop-American Studies_, I thought unkindly before motioning her up, pecking her on the cheek and then waving her along.

I wasn't so lucky with the fourth. She really _was_ over eighteen. I only had a second to wonder what I'd do if she nicked her tongue on my teeth and started bleeding in my mouth, but by then I was too busy stopping her hands before she reached down and grabbed my ass. I mean _really!_

"Bond!" I called out, sensing that he'd be the one to ask. "Are we allowed to say no if they ask for open-mouth?"

_What are you, gay?_

"Never mind," I said before he could open his mouth to answer. That man would be _no_ help. Before I turned back to my own ...business, I noticed that Bond's line was a lot shorter than Darcy's or mine. It made sense, I realized. He'd always been much more of a male fantasy than a female one. No wonder he had time to pass judgment on me.

...had I just thought of myself as a fantasy? I had to bear through this and get home!

The fifth girl half-jumped over the barrier and clamped her mouth down on mine like a suction cup, making it very hard to yell for security. She was removed by two guards and giggled the whole damned time. The sixth girl called me "Edwalicious" and asked if she tasted sweet. She did, as it happened, but only because of the bits of candy necklace stuck between her incisors. The seventh girl wanted to know why her boyfriend couldn't be an ice-cold vampire with a tormented soul. The eighth wondered why my kissing sucked so much. The ninth thought I was hotter than someone named Robert Pattinson by, like, a _lot!!_

"Holding up all right, Cullen?" asked Bond. "I understand you've never done this kind of work before."

"I'm managing, thank you," I answered, not bothering to conceal my distaste.

"Good man," he answered. "You might find it easier if you relax, though. That usually helps during a young man's first time," he added unctuously before clasping his next client, a D-cup redhead, by the hand and giving her a graceful Hollywood-dip kiss before she sauntered off.

I decided not to dignify that with a response.

"It's a shame we don't get to speak to them much," Bond continued. "Whenever my companion seems dull, I find that all she has to do is open her mouth and I find I enjoy her company immensely."

I ran the entire piano version of Mozart's _Requiem_ through my mind and made it all the way to the _Dies Irae_ before Bond's visual assaulted my brain. Darcy actually turned and glared at him over that.

"Is he always like this?" I murmured.

Darcy held too tightly to his manners to speak ill of Bond out loud, but he didn't bother to hide his expression or his thoughts. I shook my head.

_It is good to see that they've put me with someone with a sense of decency for once_, Darcy thought with true gratitude. I gave him a knowing look. Yes, it was easier for me too.

After the first few girls it got ...not _better_, but I managed to find a rhythm. Whenever a girl's thoughts were modest I would try to not let my impatience show, but the crazed harlots-in-training outnumbered the nice girls twelve to one. It was a disturbing thought. The charity reps had said I had thousands of fans, but they hadn't mentioned that so many of them were clinically insane. I held out some hope that the sane ones had just stayed home or spent their money on more sensible things.

I searched for anything to keep my mind off what I was doing. Ordinarily, I'd have been more careful with other people's privacy, but this was a highly unusual situation: I truly needed the distraction and it wasn't as if my knowledge of his thoughts could ever affect his real life in any material way. I turned my abilities toward Darcy.

I had to admit that I was eager to read more of Darcy's mind. My family didn't usually hold with the tradition of bringing back presents on every little trip, but Bella had often wondered out loud about the literary criticism concerning the character's motivation. So far, what I'd read of Darcy left me thinking that the interpretation noted in David Shapard's version was correct. At heart, the man was just shy. What Shapard didn't have the luxury of considering, however, was that this shyness was exacerbated once a year when honor compelled him to French-kiss an ill-mannered slew of twenty-first-century cougars, social inepts and sometimes all their friends from the book club.

Darcy's line of admirers was a bit more sedate than my own, covering a variety of ages. Sure, there was an over-thirty or two scattered in my—I checked my count—three hundred and sixteen kiss-ees (the truly disturbing ones were the ones who showed up with their daughters in tow), but Darcy's fans really covered the range. There were old ladies, middle-aged mothers, aunts and spinsters, and only a few girls from the iPod set. It figured. If what I understood about my own fictional nature was correct, then Darcy had been around a lot longer than I had, and his fans would have had a chance to grow older. Very few of today's young girls would bother with Austen of their own free will. It would be mostly grown women who'd read the book.

Very few of Darcy's admirers walked away without some scowl or worried expression at his haughty rudeness.

"Careful, Darcy," I heard Bond say, "give a woman the cold shoulder today and she may lash you hotly tomorrow." As I began to read just how literally Bond meant that, I started studying the booth's paint job very intently. That did it. He was right, though. Perhaps Darcy's fans hadn't read the book very well if they'd expected warmth. I doubted that my own Bella would have made that mistake. She'd read the book just too many times to make a mistake like—

For a split second, I stood there, complacent, as admirer number eighty-six skipped up to the bar. Then something occurred to me.

Fictional character, no pressure, no rumors, no consequences? This was exactly the sort of thing an uncertain girl like my Bella would do. _Was_ she here? I eyed Darcy's line. I didn't see her, but there were new arrivals all the time. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure that making out with a stranger at a kissing booth wasn't cheating.

It could not be. It could _not_ be! But then, I never had been able to read Bella's thoughts. How could I know for sure? I had but one ally: Bella's microscopic savings account.

"Pardon me, Miss," I said to my client, "but could you tell me how much you had to donate to come here today?"

Her mud-gray eyes lit up.

_He's TALKING to MEEEEEEEE!!_

"Yes, yes, I'm talking to you," I said rudely. "How much?"

_Should I just think it? Okay! My auntie bought the ticket for me as a birthday present, so I don't know!_ she thought chipperly. _I think it was maybe two or three hundred bucks._

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Well beyond Bella's means, but she hadn't been above raiding her college fund when it had come to those blasted motorcycles. Would she do it for a chance to kiss Mr. Darcy, especially when she could always give in to my insistence that I pay for Dartmouth?

"But do you know if anyone from other universes was allowed to come?" I asked, "Like maybe from my universe?"

"I don't know," she said, frowning slightly. "I'm from this universe, though."

I sighed. "Thank you," I said. She'd been no help, but that was no reason to be rude.

The day wore on and I found myself paying more attention to Darcy's line than to my own. Could Bella have hitched a ride here somehow? Was there some secret women-only newsletter that let them know about events like these? I felt my still heart leap every time I saw a head of brown hair join the end of Darcy's line. Fortunately, my enhanced vision didn't leave me wondering very long. Bella was not here, at least not yet.

I stopped thinking of Darcy as a kindred spirit. After all, he wasn't that much like me. He'd never had to deal with the bloodlust, as I had. He'd been a young man during the Napoleonic wars, but had he been willing to join and serve, as I had? Had he hidden who he truly was or endured decades of believing that he'd never been meant for love? Why, the foppish ingrate didn't deserve the least of his admirers, who, I now realized, were not pathetic shut-ins but rather intelligent, literary-minded women with a sense of romance and history.

The day wore on and six more girls tried to grab my rear—or on one memorable occasion, my front—and Frank's conspicuous security guards did nothing! All right, so they did drag the girls away and warn them that their actions could result in their being banned from future events, but for some reason I didn't find that an adequate response. For the most part, they just stood around and looked tough. Maybe someone up in management thought that would be a deterrent to inappropriate behavior, but the thoughts of my gleaming-eyed "fans" proved otherwise.

Sometime during the mid-afternoon, a scuffle broke out near the edge of the line. I called out to the guards, quickly echoed by Darcy.

"Damn..." muttered the first guard, a burly young man with hair the color of wet straw. He shoved his way toward the intensifying fight, shouting authoritatively.

I craned my neck to see better. My vision was excellent, but I wasn't Superman, and there was a field of bodies three rows deep between me and the disturbance.

"Ladies! Break it up!" called the other guard, rushing to help the first.

"_BITCH!_"

"Oh he's _way_ better. Get over it hag!"

"You take that back, you little whore!"

"Make me, troll!"

Most of the girls waiting in my line and half of the women in Darcy's had turned to watch. The scattering of Bond girls actually started cheering the combatants on. What was _happening?_ I searched the thoughts in the crowd for a close pair of eyes.

Three angry teenagers had set upon one of their own, two of them pulling her hair and twisting her arms as a third ripped off her hoodie and stomped it in the dust as the onlookers cheered.

"Break it UP!" shouted the first guard, who'd managed to get halfway through to the fight. The crowd was being obstinate, though. For some reason, it seemed as if the other girls didn't want the guards to reach the fight.

_How DARE she show up wearing THAT?!_ my set of eyes thought unkindly.

This was about fashion? What, was she in last year's cheap Gucci knockoffs? Somehow, that didn't seem right. Not even these dithering prostitweens would be that frivolous.

The girl in the offending garments was starting to get the worst of it. They were going to seriously hurt her if this went on much longer. I gathered my resolve. These girls all liked me, right? I knew better than to think that meant that they would do as I said, but I had to try.

"That's enough!" I called out, jumping nimbly over the barrier. "Stop that at once! Ladies, I will not have it!"

I quickly realized that I'd only made things worse.

_He's... He's right next to us!_

_  
I can almost touch him!_

_  
I wonder what his skin feels like!_

_  
I want his hair!!_

"EEEEEEEE!"

I was quickly dogpiled by a squealing tidal wave of body glitter and cheap hair gel. "Ow!" called one girl as the force of the crowd knocked her against my rock-hard skin. This had been a mistake. Once again, I had unwittingly exposed innocents to danger. I would just extricate myself from all this before—

"_Don't touch me there!!_" the words were out of me before I registered saying them, cringing back, leaping headfirst back across the barrier. I cringed in the fetal position, my body shivering as I tried to shake off the feeling of all those ..._hands_.

"I suppose they didn't tell you," Bond volunteered. "_Never_ go across the barrier."

I nodded, arms still hugging my knees.

But it seemed I'd provided a distraction, and the two guards were able to pull the combatants off each other. A whistle sounded, and I regained myself enough to register that they'd called additional security to expel all four participants from the grounds. I allowed myself another moment and then got to my feet, brushing the dust off my jacket and out of my hair. It had been a long time since I'd lost my composure like that. I took a few deep breaths, longing for the sweet rain scent of Forks rather than this musty hell, and stepped back to the front of the booth. The girls at the front of the line looked at me sheepishly.

"You." I pointed to a girl in a red shirt. "And _you_," I said to another. They were the ones who'd—I couldn't think of it.

"We're sorry, Edward," said one of them. I didn't care which.

"We're not on a first-name basis," I snapped. "Now get out."

They left, hanging their heads. At least those brazen degenerates could feel shame. That was something.

"So," I said to our second security guard, wanting to put off the moment when I had to get back to ...work. "What was the fight about?"

"Oh nothing," he said, his words in time with his thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other guard waving at him to shut up. "Some girl showed up in a 'Team Jacob' shirt is all."

"Wait, a what?" I asked.

"Barry," hissed the first guard, "we're not supposed to _talk_ to him about that, remember?"

"Talk to me about what?" I demanded.

The man's thoughts betrayed him. _Come on, it's not like he really wants to know how many people are rooting for his girlfriend to dump him and go have hot werewolf sex with Jacob, for all that Jacob's much less of a whiny douche when it comes to—Oh CRAP, he's reading my mind! __LA LA LA LA LA LA—_

"_Jacob?!_" I demanded. Jacob Black had fans? It was bad enough that the wolf boy fancied himself my rival, worse that his bond with Bella made him right to do so, but he had thousands upon thousands of strangers cheering him on? And this ruffian thought I was a... a... I couldn't even think the word. It was all just too indecent.

"What's going on here?" came a familiar voice. I looked over and saw Franklin scowling at his two coworkers. "It's nearly closing time and you kick six girls out of the line? What is this?"

"A fight, Frank," said the first guard. I was still reeling. "We broke it up."

"I expect a full report on this," insisted Frank. "Are you all right, Mr. Cullen?" he asked.

No, I didn't think I was, but that didn't mean I was going to stop now. It would be selfish of me, uncharitable. It would...

I eyed the rest of my crowd. They were still looking at me as if I were a cross between a strawberry sundae and a seven-thousand-dollar hypoallergenic puppy.

_If he gets too traumatized, he won't come back next year._ Frank thought. _But if I take him home now, he'll never agree to—wait, he's reading my mind again. Dammit._

"We were about to call it a day anyway," said Frank. It wasn't exactly a lie. Forty-five minutes could be "about," even if it was a stretch. "I was just coming to check on you gentlemen."

"I am eager to return home," said Mr. Darcy, ignoring the disappointed look in the few women remaining in his line. "When may I expect transportation?"

"I think I'll take Mr. Cullen home first," said Franklin.

Darcy thought about arguing, but decided against it. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

"Thank you, Franklin," said Bond. "It's a rare man who can go all day without stopping." _But I can manage when properly motivated. Fatima Blush really had a way with dolphins._

Gyah! Mozart wasn't going to see me through this one. Bach! I needed some Bach!

Three hours later, I was sitting in Bella's kitchen, recovering from my second and hopefully last inter-dimensional transfer. She'd heard from Alice that I'd gone to work at some charity event, but the look on my face must have been more suggestive of a war zone. I still hadn't figured out what to say to her.

I shook my head. I didn't want to keep secrets from her, but I just didn't know how to give voice to the horrors I'd seen that day. "Bella, is it all right, I mean..." I started over. "Could we just sit and relax tonight? I will tell you all about it someday, but right now, I just want to forget." Not that I ever could. I shuddered.

Bella's warm hand was on my shoulder before I opened my eyes. "I've never seen you like this," she murmured. "Okay, Edward."

How had I become so lucky? She was probably maddeningly curious, but she was willing to hold herself back until I could talk about it. Her selflessness never failed to humble me.

"Bella, may I ask you something?" I began.

"Sure, Edward, anything," she said.

"If you had a chance to kiss any fictional character you've ever read about, say Darcy from Jane Austen, would you do it?"

She sat back, eyebrows going up. "Okay, where did that come from?"

"Humor me," I said.

"I don't know," she told me. "I guess." The words were affirmative, but her tone was as indifferent as I could ever want. I hugged her gently.

"Thanks, Bella. I know I'm being a bit strange tonight."

"That's all right, Edward. Just relax. We can watch a DVD until Charlie gets home."

Alone in the house with Bella in my arms and some meaningless drivel on the television? It sounded like heaven. I sat back against the couch as she rifled through her father's scanty DVD collection.

"There's not much here," she said apologetically, as if it mattered. "_Best of Bassmasters_... A couple of Thin Man movies." I nodded, admiring the smooth timbre of her voice. She could put on the all buying stuff channel and I'd still have a great night so long as she made a comment about the zirconia now and again. "Hey!" she said, turning toward me, "here's the new James Bond movie!" Her fingers traced the DVD cover as a chillingly greedy point of glitter formed in her eye.

My body froze up.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

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.

.

Edward and Bella were created by Stephenie Meyer for her _Twilight_ series.

Fitzwilliam Darcy is the invention of Jane Austen and appears in _Pride and Prejudice_. David Shapard really does have a great annotated version.

James Bond was invented by Ian Fleming and first seen in his novel, _Casino Royale_, though different authors and several filmmakers have since continued the franchise.

_Star Trek_ is awesome but so is _Farscape_. _Firefly_ gets credit for being the anti-_Star Trek_, but _Farscape_ got there first. Only no one saw it. Oh well.

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drf24 (at) columbia (dot) edu


	2. First Draft Fudge Ripple

Earlier this spring, there was an auction in support of Stacie Holeman. Many fanauthors placed their services on the block for readers to bid on. Mine were purchased by the inestimable kinolaughs. She told me to write her a story in which the two most prissy—ahem I mean virtuous male leads in chick-fics, Edward Cullen and Fitzwilliam Darcy, were forced to work at a charity kissing booth.

It sounded hilarious. I knew I'd need someone else in there to balance out Ed and Darcy, so, at first, I brought in Jacob Black. However, the more I wrote the more I realized that while it was darn funny, it was very specifically _not_ what kino'd asked me to write. I started over and wrote her a story that more closely followed the letter and spirit of her challenge.

This takes place during _Eclipse_.

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.

.

The sign stared back at me like my dad at the guy from Seattle who'd turned up at Dad and Charlie's fishing spot with tennis shoes, a K-mart-issue rod and no license.

It told me that I was completely unprepared for this, that I didn't belong here. It told me that I'd had _no_ idea what I was getting into when Sam had suggested that I accept the invitation.

More literally, though, it read, "YOU MUST BE OVER 18 TO ASK FOR TONGUE."

I gulped.

Over the past twenty-four hours, I'd been told that alternate realities existed, that everybody I knew was a fictional character, that I had thousands upon thousands of adoring fans and-would-I-like-to-help-raise-money-for-cancer-research, but what brought it all home to me? The fact that this place carded.

At the time, it had seemed like a good joke, working a kissing booth for a charity. Embry and the guys had made a lot of jokes. I'd earned a few new nicknames, and "sugar lips" was the only one I could repeat in front of my dad—not that I would. Still, I could tell the guys were jealous. Even Sam had been a bit piqued; we were _all_ handsome, heroic werewolves, after all. Well, all of us but Paul.

Still, Sam'd supported my decision to come. He hadn't said it out loud, but it was also a good message to send to the pack: Killing vampires wasn't the only way to save people's lives. Even when a guy's wolf-running days were done, he could still help people in the ordinary, boring way like everybody else.

...but that hadn't been Sam's only message. I hadn't needed to hear his thoughts. It was all over his face: He was hoping I'd imprint on somebody or at least get my mind off ...her.

I'd wanted to jump up and tell him that he was out of his fool mind, but frankly, I had to admit that if there was anything that would get my mind off Bella, playing tonsil-hockey for charity with a bunch of cute girls would be pretty high up on the list.

"As you can see, Mr. Black," said my guide, a college-aged guy in a black T-shirt with a nametag that read—I squinted—"Frank," "we take our participants' safety very seriously."

I blinked. "Uh, thanks?" I offered. Did this dude remember the part where I had super-strength, accelerated healing and, oh yeah, that thing where I could turn into a wolf the size of a freaking cavalry horse? What could possibly happen at a charity event that would put me in the way of physical harm?

He seemed to sense my doubt and gave me a wry smile, "Well maybe not _your_ safety," he admitted, "but the girls can do a bit of damage to each other if they get in a tiff."

I chuckled. Check that, if there was anything that would get my mind off Bella, getting fought over by a bunch of cute girls would be pretty high up on the list. I stayed in a relatively good mood as Frank unlocked a chain-link fence and motioned toward what looked at first to be a wooden fairground booth. I looked a little closer and saw iron grating.

"We'll let the donors onto the grounds as soon as security finishes the morning check-in," said Frank. "The ladies all pay their tickets at the outer gate, so don't worry about that part." I nodded. "Let me introduce you to your booth buddy."

I looked up, frowning as a dark-haired man in a tuxedo walked toward me. There was something familiar about him, something I just couldn't place as he reached out to shake my hand and said—

"Bond. James Bond."

My jaw must've hit the floor, because one of 007's eyebrows quirked. Fortunately, I had something very smooth to say in response.

"I—! Cool—! You—!"

"Yes, quite," he answered. Wow! "Franklin," he said over my shoulder, "dare I to hope that Fitzwilliam will _not_ be joining us today?"

I vaguely heard Frank heave a sigh. "I told you, Mr. Bond, Darcy's just been around too long. He's a tradition around here; he's got _regulars_."

Oh my _God_ the guys were going to be so jealous!

"And I can hardly match his enthusiasm," he said with 100% organically grown Bond-brand sarcasm.

"Hey, he might be a prissy son of a bitch, but Darcy brings in the crowds. And while we appreciate your contribution, you've always been more of a male fantasy."

I was shaking hands with 007. This was _so cool!_

"Are you quite finished with my hand, young man?" he asked me. He was talking to me!

"Um—! Yeah!" I said, letting go. Man, this was awesome. I wondered if he'd say the martini line next.

"But if it helps..." Frank muttered as he checked his clipboard. "We put Darcy and—" Frank stopped talking for a second. My hand was still tingling. "—and the other one over on the west side of the fair."

"Ah," said Bond, "I appreciate that."

"Actually, we were more worried about—you know, never mind. Have a great day, Mr. Bond, Mr. Black, and thank you both!"

I nodded, looking around. The place was set up like a traditional fairground. There was even what looked like a Ferris wheel off to our left, but the place didn't look like it was running. The charity had probably rented it out for the day.

All right... Reality—relatively speaking—was setting in. I was at a charity event running a kissing booth with James Bond. I could be cool. Matter of fact, I had to be cool. I took a deep breath. I was here with a childhood idol, and maybe it would help if I didn't drool all over him.

"Got a hold of yourself?" he asked.

I managed to laugh a little. "Yeah," I said. "Sorry for freaking out like that."

"Oh, I get that all the time," he answered with what might have been weariness. "So have you ever done one of these before?"

Holy hell, I was talking shop with James B—_Cool it, Jacob!_ I told myself. "No," I said. "How do they usually work?"

"Nothing to it, really," he said, looking out onto the fairgrounds. In the distance, I could hear many, many sets of footsteps. "—but you might want to relax if it's your first time."

"Um," it took a second for my brain to catch up to what I'd heard. He probably hadn't meant what it had sounded like he'd meant. "Thanks?"

I didn't get much more chance to think about it. By now, there were people entering the park, forming lines, filing toward me in a neat row.

_Here goes_, I thought.

Twenty minutes in, I was fighting the urge to check my watch. I'd been ready for this thing to be awkward or dredge up unpleasant memories, but I hadn't thought it would be so ..._creepy_.

My first kiss was with a pretty blonde girl who looked about my age. She smiled like a kid in an ice cream store on free double cherry day. I didn't have much experience kissing girls, just the one smooch with Bella and that time in ninth grade when Quil had dared me to make out with Paul's cousin Mary behind the school gym. Mary had said my lips tasted like dead Spam (the result of a pervious dare from Embry) and Bella had said I was a manipulative jerk. Blondie didn't say a thing.

The next few were ...well... _younger_ than I expected. Some of these girls had to be like twelve or thirteen. Sure, with them it was just a half-second peck on the lips, but it was still pretty weird.

And most of them weren't cute. Most of them weren't ugly or anything (although the one in the "Sparkle Me" hoodie could've scared a few alley cats); most of them were fine, but these were ordinary-looking girls with braces and freckles and bad skin. It made sense, now that I was here. I mean, cute girls wouldn't have to pay someone to kiss them, right? It wasn't exactly the ego boost I'd been expecting.

And the way some of them were _looking_ at me. It was like I was some cross between the Messiah and a baby panda ...and then there were the T-shirts reading "Team Jacob." What the hell?

"I know," said a smooth voice from behind me. "Sometimes, I simply close my eyes and think of England." I noticed that Bond's line of ...admirers was mostly older than mine, nobody under eighteen and a couple who looked over forty. I guessed it was because he'd been around a lot longer than I had.

"It's a shame we don't get to speak to them much," Bond continued. "Whenever my companion seems dull, I find that all she has to do is open her mouth and I find I enjoy her company immensely."

Um, what? I blinked. "Uh, did you just say—"

"OhmiGod! Are you Jacob from _Twilight_?" squealed a girl in red-framed sunglasses. She had some kind of poufy cat ears stuck to her headband. She also had skin like a spotted trout and the voice to match.

"Um, I'm Jacob Black if that's what you mean," I answered with what I hoped was polite interest, but I couldn't help leaning forward to get the goddamned kiss over with.

The girl's mouth hung open for half a second before she let out an "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" that could have shattered glass.

"Gyah!" I flinched back. The girl didn't seem to mind, still jumping up and down while her friends further back in line waved her on.

I blinked hard to clear my head and then just leaned in and brushed my lips just _just_ slightly against her orange chapstick.

"OhmiGod! He kissed mEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she squealed into the ether.

By the time we broke for lunch, I had a headache that could level the Alps.

"I must say," Bond was telling me as we chowed down on fairground sandwiches, "there's something to be said for eating out, but today's fare is hardly the best I've had."

I stopped chewing. I'd seen the women in James Bond's line and frankly I hadn't needed the visual.

"Do you have to do that while we're eating?" I asked quietly.

Bond just shot me a look that said, _What are you, gay?_

Okay, so this was exactly the sort of stuff he said in his movies, and sure, what had I expected from a guy who hung out with girls named Tiffany Case and Pussy Galore, but the Bond-isms were officially non-funny when they weren't on the other side of a TV. I could see it now, like a guy writing home from the army: _Dear Guys, I met James Bond and he's an asshole. Don't let Paul touch my car. Love, Jacob._

I was getting a good blue funk of feeling sorry for myself going on, and it was almost nice that it had nothing to do with her. I barely noticed the sound of footsteps in motion. It took a gentle nudge in the ribs from Bond to make me look up.

And there was Frank, fidgeting with his clipboard, "Can you be cool?" he asked.

Uh oh. "What do you mean?" I asked back.

"Look," said Frank, "we kept him _all_ the way on the other side of the event. I mean, we weren't expecting that _you_ would make trouble but sometimes his fans get a little rambunctious and, uh..."

"For God's sake, man, speak up!" James Bond ordered awesomely. Perverted or not, he had style.

"I'm afraid the fans have destroyed the west kissing booth—"

"Damn..." muttered Bond.

"—and we'll have to put them both of those guys in here with you. Security is escorting them here now."

"Sounds fine," I said carefully. It did. It sounded like it was no big deal at all. The place was certainly big enough. So why would Frank be so skittish about it?

The sound built like a wave, breaking far out on the water and then growing and crowing until it crashed over me with a thundering white fury:

"EeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!_"

"Oh God, not him," muttered Bond. I squinted to see better. Was it that Darcy guy he'd mentioned earlier? It took me a second to place the name. Right, _Pride and Prejudice_. I'd read it in English class. Well, I'd read most of it and then watched the Kiera Knightley movie. If what I could hear from my own line of shrill admirers was any indication, Mr. Darcy was the main hero of the world's biggest chick flick. No wonder Frank hadn't wanted to piss him off.

But as the guards came into view from behind the Tilt-a-Whirl, I saw that they were bringing us _two_ other men, not one.

And then the breeze shifted.

"No..." I muttered. It couldn't be. It just _couldn't_ be.

Bond coked an eyebrow toward me. "Good news and bad news," I volunteered. "The good news is that we don't have to share the sandwiches." I squinted against the glare. He'd seen me. I could tell from the way his shoulders had hunched. He knew _just_ what was waiting for him. "The bad news is that we have to share a universe with a blood-sucking crime against nature."

Bond didn't answer, and I was glad. I just watched them get closer. Stray guards minded the crowd until Frank, Darcy and the vampire who thought he was good enough for Bella passed through the security gate to join Bond and me inside the booth.

"Gentlemen," said Frank with obvious self-consciousness, "I'd like to introduce Fitzwilliam Darcy—"

I shook Darcy's offered hand. The fact that Bond didn't like him was no reason to be rude.

"Hello."

"Good day," he answered stiffly. Whatever. I had bigger fish to fry.

"—and Edward Cullen."

Since coming into my birthright, my senses had gotten some serious tweaking. I hardly needed to squint to see those evil yellow eyes narrowing at me. He didn't like that I was here. Well too bad. If there was anyone who didn't have a right to be here, it was him.

So what was the insult going to be today? Things could get pretty creative, but he'd generally stuck to "dog" or "stinking puppy" when Bella was around, probably to avoid pissing her off. I had to hand it to my girl for being non-partisan. She hadn't bitched me out for calling him a leech, either, for all that I'd itched for her to smack his mouth.

I saw the muscles in his jaw twitch as he unclenched his teeth.

_Yeah, work it up, ice dick._

"Jacob," he said coldly. I frowned. Not a friendly handshake, but this was hardly our traditional greeting. But whatever. I could play along until I figured out what was going on.

"Edward," I answered the same way. No insult. No warmth. Why was he going easy on me? Was he worried about offending the shrieking hordes? Did he like the attention that much? Oho, I'd have bet he did. Son of a bitch drove around in a goddamned Aston-Martin as if he were James B—as if he were a real badass. I'd've bet he just loved that all these chicks were drooling over him.

He flicked an eyebrow but didn't say anything else.

"I suppose you two know each other," Bond finished dryly. Darcy barely moved.

"Great then," Frank said. I noticed his voice was just a little quicker and higher-pitched than usual. "Can we get started?"

I suddenly remembered why I was here. Kissing. For donations to cancer. And Edward Cullen was standing right next to me. What if he told Bella that I'd spent the whole day alternately kissing jailbait and being cougar bait? Nah, then he'd just have to explain what he was doing here. Come to think of it, maybe I should rat him out...

"And where shall I begin, Mr. Franklin?" asked a stiff voice.

"I've told you, Mr. Darcy, you can call me Frank."

I watched Darcy's shoulders stiffen and shook my head. Frank might as well have told Darcy that he could give him a neck rub. The dude was Just. Not. Comfortable. with all this.

Franklin put me and Edward on opposite sides of the booth muttering something about "don't cross the streams." What did Ghostbusters have to do with this?

There was a fussy sigh behind me. "Because this way your fans and my fans line up in opposite directions," he said as if each word were as heavy as a boulder. "That way they don't peck each other's eyes out while they're waiting their turns."

Condescending son of a... Well, it made sense. As surreal as it was to think of Edward and me fighting out this great duel using skinny pre-teens as proxies, I'd have wanted any fan of mine to hate his guts as much as I did.

"What are you doing here?" I asked plainly. "Taking a look at the buffet?"

No one else would've noticed, but whatever mask of reserve Edward had put on for the day finally cracked. I could tell that I'd gotten to him. He was too still. When a human or werewolf or any other living person got distracted, they tended to move more. Not vampires, though. Those jerks only pretended to twitch and fidget—unless they got too upset at someone calling them on their shit and forgot to fake being normal. He might write me off as a dumb kid, but I had noticed far more about his kind than he would ever realize.

"Well I realize it _now_, genius."

What was he talking about n—

Oh yeah, he could read my mind. Damn.

"I'd say you catch on quick, but..." he trailed off condescendingly.

Oh but I was _so_ going to rip him apart one day.

"As if you could take me," he sneered back.

"Anytime, leech boy," I answered in kind, but by the my next "client," a friendly looking fourteen-or-so with plump cheeks and a "TEAM JACOB" T-shirt, was waiting for me and it was time to get back to work.

It was easier than it had been this morning. I had a set of mysteries to distract me After a few girls, I got a rhythm going and I was able to think about other things while still letting the girls—and one forty-year-old English teacher who would just not shut _up_ about some _Wuthering Heights _metaphor—feel like they had my full attention.

But of course, they didn't. Reality was too much of a deal right now. I had to keep reminding myself that yes, I was really here with Edward Cullen. When I looked over my shoulder, I noticed with a sort of smug satisfaction that his line of adoring fans wasn't any hotter than mine. Except he had a couple more older women in there. Yep. My archenemy was standing right next to me, kissing girls young enough to not need training bras and old enough to be my mom. I was wishing to God I'd thought to bring chapstick and some disinfectant, and the fact that James Bond was four feet away showing Darcy from _Pride and Prejudice_ how to work an exploding pen didn't even help. In fact, I was pretty sure I'd never be able to watch _Goldeneye_ again.

What the hell were they doing here? I was here because I was a werewolf dedicated to saving humanity from its enemies. Easy. Bond wasn't much harder—I cringed—wasn't much more difficult. No way was spending a day kissing women a big sacrifice for him. They probably hadn't even had to tell him it was for charity.

But I didn't get Darcy and I didn't get Cullen. Darcy was acting as if every last woman waiting in line had just tried to serve red wine with fish or whatever worked as the Austen-era equivalent to calling someone's mom a skeeze. Edward was still being less abrasive than usual. I couldn't go so far as to say he was being nice to me, but, like earlier, unless I pushed his buttons, he kept things a weird kind of civil. His words had an almost graceful formality to them. I decided to keep an eye on both of them. It would be something to do between underage bleach blondes.

They'd put Darcy on my left so that Edward and I wouldn't have to look at each other. I watched him out of the corner of my eye and, after a while, he got easier to read. The line of women waiting to meet Darcy was a lot less ...crazy than mine. Sure, I had a couple of grown women, but Darcy's fans really covered the range. There were old ladies, middle-aged motherly types and only a few girls who were my age. Nobody younger. I guess not many people in the Internet generation liked reading about tea parties for fun.

I could remember in sophomore English class when they'd told us that Darcy seemed mean but he was really shy, and it was looking like that was right. He pushed himself toward each new taker like he was scared of her, not like he thought she was dirty. But even that didn't make any sense. Back in eighteen-oh-whenever-the-book-came-out, you had to be engaged to even hold hands in public. Why would a guy who was so proper about everything sign on to kiss strangers? The next time I got a break in my—ahem—_duties_, I took a step over.

"Darcy, may I ask you something?"

The dude's expression got even more sour but no way was I calling him _Mister_ Darcy if he wasn't calling me Mr. Black.

"I suppose you may, Mr. Black."

I still wasn't calling him Mister Darcy. "If this makes you so uncomfortable," I asked, "then why do you come?"

His mouth twitched backwards. This was no frozen bloodsucker. He tried to hold his feelings back; he didn't fake being human. "Honor demands it," he said simply.

"Honor?" I asked, suddenly realizing that I sounded like an ignorant hick. Of course I knew what honor was; I just didn't know what lip-locking three hundred strange women had to do with it.

"Once a promise is made," Darcy told me stiffly, "even if it was made foolishly, or too quickly, or in a moment of pity, it must be kept, and that is simply that."

"Wait, so they got you to promise to come every year and now you can't go back on it?"

"Obviously."

"But I'm sure you could find some other way to help people if you really wanted." Heck, I was going through a pair of Keds a week and I still managed to give a dollar to the Salvation Army guy once in the while. In the book, Darcy was super-rich. Probably could have built his own charity out of monocles or whatever.

"I am certain that I could," said Darcy. "But a promise is a promise."

I had to take a moment to process that. No way was anybody that honorable. Even back in olden times where he was from people weren't really that honorable. We only thought of them that way because of movies and novels and—

Oh.

_Oh!_

I took another look at the line of women waiting for twenty seconds of this man's time. I finally got it.

I'd been thinking of Darcy as if he were a real person, but he wasn't. He was a fictional character. _And so am I_, but I tried not to think about that. More than that, he was a fictional character who'd managed to get women to love him for two hundred years. Yes, he was the sort of person who'd make a promise on his wedding night to always help with the housework and still be doing dishes on his twentieth anniversary. I stifled a chuckle. I was so glad that I wasn't from a chick-flick book.

What was it called, anyway? _Badass Werewolf Mystery Hour_? Nah, too flashy... _Jacob Kicks Edward's Frozen Butt, Volume I_?

"What makes you think you're the protagonist, wolf boy?" someone called from behind me.

I scowled at him over my shoulder. Spying prick. It was time to turn the tables on him.

He snorted. "As if anything you came up with—"

"Does Bella know you're out here?" I asked. He looked away. "She doesn't, does she?" I was glad that I'd made him change the subject, now this made even less sense. Bella was head over heels for this jerk but not to the point where she'd be okay with him kissing a few hundred other girls, not even if they were mostly annoying twerps.

"No, she doesn't know," Edward said quietly. "Helping out today wasn't exactly my idea, but—"

"Oh come now, Edward," Bond cut in smoothly. "You've shown up on time for the past three years. You have your reasons for being here."

Edward raised his chin haughtily and turned back to the girls waiting for his attention.

All right. Something was going on here. Something just wasn't right. On the one hand, maybe it was theoretically possible that a bloodsucker could give a flying crap about cancer—I mean, if it had been Carlisle here, I could've bought it—but this particular bloodsucker was way, _way_ too prissy.

And for all that I didn't like to admit it, he was hung up on Bella to the point where I didn't see him cheating on her.

What the _hell_ was he doing here?

...these people had known that I was a werewolf, so they probably knew that Eddie was a vampire. Had they threatened to blow his family's cover? Nah. Even if these people had tricked Darcy, it could've been an accident. Frank here didn't know not to tell Darcy to use his first name; maybe his predecessor hadn't known that Darcy would keep any promise he made no matter how stupid. If Edward had come back three times, that meant that he was doing something here and—I watched him cringe as he pecked a grabby brunette on the corner of her mouth—and it definitely wasn't to meet girls.

His next customer opened her zit-framed mouth to say something, but he cut her off before she could speak.

"You're not eighteen." Edward's cold, velvety voice was wet with disapproval. The skinny kid in front of him looked like he'd just shoved a sword through her guts.

"But I—"

"You're fifteen," Edward said rudely. "And if Sharie said that you could pass for nineteen if you borrowed her push-up bra then she was lying her size-fours off."

Her lower lip crumpled and began to twitch.

"That might work on Mrs. Federman when your homework is late, but it won't work on me," he said finally. Her face steadied and turned sullen.

"Now do you still want the kiss?" he asked.

She shook her head and trudged off. Edward's shoulders twitched. Probably in relief.

I didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, these girls were really freaking me out. On the other... "Did you have to be so mean?" I asked at last.

"Oh nonsense," his voice was like a snowball full of razor blades, "that girl is going to run straight home and tell her whole school that little Sharie's only been pretending to be the same size as whatever stick figure they've pasted up behind the altar this year. She'll have the time of her life."

"Do you ever think that maybe you shouldn't encourage them to act like evil bitchlings to each other?" I asked.

"When you've been alive as long as I have, you learn that there is no changing human nature."

_What would you know about human nature, bloodsucker?_

"More than I'd like," he said.

"Will you—" I stopped. What was I going to do, ask him to stop hearing my thoughts? I of all people knew it didn't work that way. Frankly, answering me as if I'd said it out loud was probably the least messed up of his available options.

"Thank you, I tend to think so."

"All right, seriously," I said. "You're using their thoughts against them. It's creepy."

"Well what else am I supposed to do about it?" Edward snapped back. "And another thing, if you're going to be so high-and-mighty about it, then what are you doing to—"

I never registered his last words. As he threw his hissy fit, he stepped toward me, straight into a beam of mid-afternoon sunlight.

I actually blinked. His whole skin _sparkled_. I mean, _exactly_ like that little heart diamond thing that he'd given Bella to one-up me on my wolf charm.

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, laughing my ass off. The girls in the crowd must've started taking pictures with their cellphones, because there was big a chorus of, "Oooooo!" and he started to gleam in time to those fake recorded clicking sounds, like a beauty shot on one of those reality fashion shows. That just made me laugh harder. Even Bond seemed to be hiding a chuckle behind his hand.

"Get a hold of yourself, man," muttered Darcy.

_Oh not for the world!_ I thought.

Edward just rolled his eyes. "Must you?"

"You look like a twelve-year-old girl emptied a jar of glitter over your head," I gasped out.

He actually looked a little miffed.

Oho, this was going to be easier than I thought. Vampire boy did not know how to be laughed at. Sooner or later, Bella would see him in the sunlight, react the way I had, and he'd dump her himself just because he couldn't take it. Except this time, she wouldn't fall apart. She knew how to live without him now. And even if she didn't come running to me, she wouldn't turn me away if I went to her.

"Actually—" Edward said quietly, then seemed to think the better of it.

"Actually what?" I asked. "It's actually that stuff that strippers use?"

Edward composed himself quickly. "Hardly," he said simply.

I frowned again. He'd gone back to what he'd been doing when he'd first showed up. He was being less of an asshole than usual again. What was going on?

"Mr. Black—" I turned as Darcy moved toward me. "—must you act this way to your companions?" he said. There was disgust in his voice, but not the kind of heavy revulsion that I got from the Cullen kids. There was an almost graceful rhythm to it, as if he'd practiced and practiced what to say in this situation until he'd gotten it just right. It reminded me of a teacher I'd had in grade school. Whenever he yelled at us, he said that it was because he thought we were really better than we were acting.

No wonder the chicks dug this guy. No wonder Bella had read his book five times.

I didn't answer Darcy out loud. I just nodded slightly. He seemed satisfied and got back to work. Then I turned for one last glare at Edward...

...and everything came together.

He wasn't watching me, for once. His eyes were on Darcy, taking in the man's every move. I'd seen that look before, when Quil'd been trying to figure out how to phase at will. He'd glued his eyes to every one of us as we went back and forth. I'd seen that look on Embry during math class. Hell, I'd seen that look in the mirror.

My mouth gaped open as I put two and two together. I might not've had five Ph. D's in how to make macramé chickens or whatever the hell it was they taught at Harvard, but I wasn't dumb.

"You've been copying him!" Edward's head jerked toward me. I didn't stop. "You saw that she loves all that Jane Austen stuff and you've been coming here and taking notes so you could put the Darcy whammy on her!"

At first, his mouth hung open.

Then that smirk. That evil, beautiful smirk. "I seem to recall telling you," he said slowly, "that I wasn't planning on fighting fair."

"Oh you _son of a—!_" I lunged for his throat before I even remembered how quickly he could dodge me. I crashed into the side of the booth, making the whole structure shake. My brain was on fire. The damn bloodsucker was _cheating!_ A thick growl built in my human throat.

"Think before you phase, wolf boy," Edward told me with mock generosity, dodging my second lunge.

"What do you care?" I snarled, feeling the familiar fever-prickling in my skin.

The stinking vampire gave a melodramatic sigh—overkill, really, considering he didn't even really _breathe_—and said, "Sooner or later, you'll have to change back. Do you really want to be naked in _this_ company?"

I opened my mouth to tell him that if James Bond was intimidated by my bare butt, then he probably needed a license to kill his own lame ass. Then I looked over my shoulder at the line of eager pre-teens. One of them had a set of fluffy fake cat ears on her head. What the fuck? All of them had camera phones.

Oh. That the fuck.

"Fuck you," I said at last.

"You're welcome," answered Edward.

I seethed, but there was nothing I could do. This whole damned day.

The next time I felt like donating to charity, I'd just hand over my paycheck.

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Jacob and Edward were created by Stephenie Meyer for her _Twilight_ series.

Fitzwilliam Darcy is the invention of Jane Austen and appears in _Pride and Prejudice_. David Shapard really does have a great annotated version.

James Bond was invented by Ian Fleming and first seen in his novel, _Casino Royale_, though different authors and several filmmakers have since continued the franchise.

_Star Trek_ is awesome but so is _Farscape_. _Firefly_ gets credit for being the anti-_Star Trek_, but _Farscape_ got there first. Only no one saw it. Oh well.

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drf24 (at) columbia (dot) edu


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